Brute

A few stanzas about an unnamed brute.

Brute

Heavy, wheezing breaths drawn past yellowed teeth
and cracked, thick lips.
Bloodshot hungry eyes stare angrily
At a confusing, uncaring world.
Shoddy armor clanks and animal skin boots rustle as
The brute crunches the dirt under his feet,
staking it out in the wilds.
His voice, a hard, mean ax on his back,
His tongue, the sharpened edge of that blunt tool.
His hands, the toughened fingers and claws at the ends of his arms.
His feet, booted pile drivers that plod onwards.
He is the Brute.

Watch him as he goes
From here to there, and over there
Where is he going? He doesn't know
Maybe where bountiful game rustle in the leaves
To fill his rumbling stomach.
Maybe to the stream, to drink noisily from water scooped in his palms
Or to his mountain den, where he may rest his head and slumber,
His snores like wet thunder in the stony confines.

He knows no reason.
He doesn't know art or science or civilized life.
He is the brute and can survive. That's all he knows.
And that's all he wants to know.